


Blessed Is This Union

by loveinamaltshop



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And warnings and the disclaimer!, Consensual Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Face Slapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Cock & Ball Torture, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Punching, Sadomasochism, Unreliable Narrator, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinamaltshop/pseuds/loveinamaltshop
Summary: Patrick, much like everything he does, makes him beautiful. Shows him what he’s worth.Turns him inside out: hideous and gory and bruised outside and absolutelycleanon the inside.-Pete looks good in blue, and he knows it.





	Blessed Is This Union

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, I hope you've read the tags because if not, here's the disclaimer:
> 
> This is a work of fiction depicting **mental instability and graphic sadomasochism that isn't negotiated properly**. It includes **rationalizations of physical, emotional, and psychological abuse** that I'm aware may be triggering to some. This work was not in any way used to glorify these things. I do not condone the actions and thoughts of Pete or Patrick in the story. 
> 
> If this is not your cup of tea, I advise you to turn away now. There are a lot of other lovely fics out there!

Blue, blue. Ativan blue, not quite Patrick blue, which was disappointing to Pete. Not quite Pete blue either, the kind of blue Patrick gave Pete, not quite pretty as him, always prettier the day after.

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick had grumbled as Pete was humming.

It was something discordant — hey, maybe it’ll work in a song, _fuck,_ he knew Patrick wasn’t the only musical genius — speaking of Patrick, Patrick, whose cheek he was poking, Patrick in the backseat, Patrick all the way there, Patrick so far away. Lucky Joe, asleep beside his Patrick, hungover, yes, but currently the luckiest man in Pete’s book.

“Fucking _what_ , Pete?” Patrick snaps, grabbing onto Pete’s wrist. His fingertips were pressing hard onto the skin of his wrist, could probably feel his wrist pulsing, racing, whispering the quiet _PatrickPatrickPatrick,_ oh did he know? Could he hear? Patrick was literally the blood in his veins, the reason for the lost synapses, fueling impulse and not much else. His nails dig into his wrist, and Pete yowls, pulling away. Half moons that remind him of Patrick’s eyes when he laughs at (never with, never because) Pete show up on his skin.  

“Hand me the Red Bull, dumbass,” Pete snickers. “I need to take my medicine.”

“Hell no,” Patrick makes a face. He makes the prettiest faces. “We are not giving you any more sugar. Andy! Back me up here.”

Andy is driving beside Pete, eyes ping-ponging between Pete and Patrick, and the road, decides it isn’t worth it. _It’s not the sugar’s fault, Patrick!_ Pete wants to yell back. _It’s you, it’s you!_ He purses his mouth and frowns at Patrick.

“I’ll spit in your hats, _plural_ _,_ so gimme,” Pete reaches out to touch Patrick again, only have to have his hand slapped away. So mean. His Patrick was so very mean. But that’s why he loves him so, and why he’s the only one for Pete.

“Fuck you,” Patrick breathes before he hands Pete a fresh can, lukewarm from his backpack. “We are not rooming.”

Pete shakes his head, blinks prettily at Patrick’s furious not-Ativan blues. He makes a show of swallowing his Ativan dry, grinning at Patrick, pretty flushed-red Patrick, sticks his tongue out, up and down, see, doc? All gone.

The Red Bull is cracked open and chugged in front of him too.

Patrick punches the headrest of Pete’s seat. Pete’s won, for now.

* * *

“Do you think you’re funny, Pete?” Patrick snarls as he tosses his duffel bag into the room.

Pete follows, smiling. He does, he really does.

The venue isn’t expecting them for at least two hours. Andy and Joe have gone ahead, because Andy has some girl he’s been texting and Joe’s scoping out if they’re going to let the performers drink despite being underage.

He knows the deliberate, flat steps Patrick’s taking. He knows what’s going to come. He drops his own bag before Patrick grabs his upper arm and strikes him across the face with the flat of his palm.

Pete can’t tell the difference of his ears ringing to angels singing in the fucked up part of heaven he and Patrick are going to one day. They’re going to die together, and this is how Pete wants to go. Under Patrick’s hand.

“I really do,” Pete says, holding back any giggles that threaten to slip out. His face stings, and his toes find the ground, back to earth, the entire world and all its sensations concentrating on the tight ring of strong fingers around his bicep.

Patrick, objectively, is not at his most intimidating. His thrifted Bowie ringer is ratty and makes him look even younger than his eighteen and a half, sleeves too big around his arms and the outline of his belly pressing against the front of it. If the universe worked a different way, it would be Patrick pinned at his wrists and hips, but it doesn’t.

Patrick, despite Pete’s thoughts, backhands him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, an echo from the car ride from earlier. But it’s sharper, digging into his flesh like daggers, inciting goosebumps along his skin and the hitch in his breath. His mind is quiet, and he likes it like this, when nothing’s going through his head. “You’re going to be quiet when I tell you to be, okay?”

Pete hums, purposely ignoring his instructions, knowing it’ll crank up _this_ Patrick to an eleven. He earns another slap to the face, so much harder than he expects this early on, and it leaves him stumbling backwards. Patrick throws him on top of the mattress and shucks Pete’s shirt over his torso. He sits on Pete’s hips, ass pressing uncomfortably over Pete’s already hard dick.

Under it is a litter of bruises. Patrick-shaped bruises, Pete likes to think. His fist or his palm or a belt buckle or the rare treat of his teeth. Bringing his insides closer to his outsides, for Patrick to see and for him to see and for the world to see one day, but Patrick always insists _no, Pete._ Pete always complies. Pete is positive he might die if Patrick stops doing this — turning him inside out.

Patrick presses on one he left above Pete’s “Unloveable” tattoo. It’s now a disgusting green-purple color under the black of the ink. Pete flinches, but Patrick only prods it harder, pushing down like he has something to prove.

“Do you think it’s true?” Patrick whispers before his hand roves down, flicking at Pete’s nipple ring. It makes Pete whine, bucking up, his dick that’s still painfully pressed under Patrick’s weight. He pulls his nails down over his torso, leaving red, raised marks, some intersecting with marks of the past, making Pete flinch.

He adjusts where he’s straddling Pete before a blow lands on his stomach, causing him to gasp out. God, he needs this. More than breathing, more than food, more than this fucking band sometimes.

 _“Unloveable,”_ Patrick muttered viciously. Heart to the word, and salt to the same wound he was opening up. “Huh, Pete? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, strangled in a way that makes Patrick cock his head in interest. He reminds Pete of a puppy, the way his baby-fat cheeks droop as he’s looking down at Pete. All thoughts leave him when Patrick’s still surprisingly firm hand wraps around his throat.

His fist lands on his cheek, once, twice. Pete feels the way his blood travels around his body, feeling it leave his head. It floods his cock, embarrassingly enough. Patrick slaps him on the side of the head. He sees white spots in the grimy ceiling of the motel, calls it God.

And it’s wrong. It’s wrong to. His real one sits painfully against his cock, making his jaw slack in absolute submission. He wants Patrick to break him, as if he hasn’t already. He wants the world around him to swim, make him dizzy, and drown him. He wants to go into the world, perpetually unforgiven, wants to bleed Patrick’s name, maybe literally one day.

Patrick’s hand doesn’t go any harder than it does. His neck is the one place he can’t keep bruises, it would be harder to explain to the guys, his family, the quietly creeping fanbase. He can only hit on so many guys at bars’ girlfriends. He can only step to the wrong dude at shows or hit pavement or run into poles or whatever made-up reason for so long.

“You’re so fucked up,” Patrick mutters. He straddles Pete’s stomach, no longer sitting on him. He runs an unfairly light feather-touch to the front of Pete’s pants. “You’re one of those pain sluts.”

Pete bucks up, louder now, pleading almost, not sure if he wants out or just wants a fucking hand in his pants. He waits for a blow and doesn’t get it. He’s making all kinds of inhuman noises now. The wild and primal shines from his eyes and is heard from his mouth. He could come at the twist under Patrick’s fist, or a lazy, hot mouth with just the faintest scrape of Patrick’s teeth.

“Fucking pervert,” Patrick says, spit flying towards Pete’s face, feeling not unlike venom that litters his face. The back of Pete’s eyes threaten to prickle with tears, but they never come. He never cries when he does this with Patrick. Maybe when he’s finally under the hot steam of the shower, but never during.

He doesn’t think about what Patrick might do if he does.

Patrick gets off the bed, shucking off Pete’s pants, and pulls his shoes along with it. He doesn’t comment on his lack of underwear and watches his red cock bob up. Pete’s hands almost want to cover himself up instinctively, to hide how he’s leaking with pre-come like a teenager. Patrick sees the twitch of his wrists and holds them both above his head, and squeezes them as a warning.

“I’m gonna let you come,” Patrick says, devoid of any real emotion. The declaration sends Pete blubbering, bucking his hips up before Patrick lands a hard smack onto the hard line of Pete’s cock.

Pete hisses, gazing up at Patrick with big eyes.

Patrick smiles tightly before he wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. “Let me finish,” he enunciates slowly, as if Pete’s a child. “You’re going to come and you’re going to show up to Joe and Andy with your own come all over yourself. So they know how fucking pathetic you are, late to the show because you just _had_ to rub one out in the room. How you couldn’t even change or wash up. Just some mindless whore.”

“Yes,” Pete agrees, blindly. He can already start to feel the ramifications of Patrick beating him earlier, every slap and punch like a memento under his skin. He feels alive, alive, alive. Patrick is giving him life and he couldn’t be more grateful. Patrick, much too good to him in every sense of the word.

The vice grip on his cock moves, and his entire body shudders with relief. Patrick is watching his face and for a second, he can’t remember if Patrick wants him grateful and responsive, or quiet and pliant.

He settles for helpless whimpers, open-mouthed, more of a show now than a reaction. He screws his eyes shut, and sometimes when he does, he finds himself somewhere else. Sometimes, Patrick’s in love with him. There is a world where he feels like he deserves gentle kisses under ears and inside elbows and on navels.

Maybe those are things that keep him alive. The way Patrick smiles at his lovely, tiny girlfriends or at Joe’s stupid jokes or Andy’s dry comments.

He doesn’t have the luxury of falling for Patrick. He worships him, the unworthy disciple in front of the idol, knees raw from the lack of a pew, the over-genuflection from reverence, the rosary prayer with an extra decade.

He’s black and blue, has been since the first time Patrick laid his hands on him, he wants to drip in it, be what Patricks irises and pupils would look like if they reached their melting point.

He comes embarrassingly fast, eyes shut unattractively as he spills over his stomach, over his chest, over the line of his neck.

A slap comes down between his balls and shaft immediately, and he cries out in pain, the oversensitivity from his orgasm already too much.

Patrick is salt, Pete is the fresh wound.

There’s a hand that reaches over Pete’s face, and for a second, Pete braces himself for the inevitable impact. It doesn’t come, and it’s the first time he’s surprised that night.

It’s a hand that doesn’t caress nor hold him for lips to cover his own. It stays on his face, like he’s checking his temperature. It’s the first gift of mercy Patrick has given him in a long time. A touch that isn’t intended to break him open.

“Don’t do that again,” Patrick whispers. Almost fond.

Pete feels his fingers seemingly reattach to his body as he wills himself to push his body upwards. He doesn’t know what Patrick means. Being a little shit in the van? Coming way too fast?

He doesn’t get an answer. He doesn’t bring himself to bother asking the questions he doesn’t have. So he dresses himself while Patrick, whose hands are shaking, heads to the bathroom, presumably to take care of himself.

He ignores the heavy, heavy breathing. Then the sobs.  

When Patrick leaves, he’s still staring at the ceiling. It’s not the first time Patrick’s cried, and he always makes sure to spare him his dignity and never look.

The kid deserves that much.

The door shuts behind Patrick, and he waits a whole minute until the footsteps are indiscernible.

He puts his clothes back on.

* * *

Pete sleeps without popping a pill that night, right after the show. He’s genuinely exhausted from playing and bouncing around. Relatively soundly, stomach down. He’s happy that this motel room doesn’t have bed bugs that would have kept him up.

The sound of Patrick padding into the room makes him open his eyes blearily against the over-bleached pillowcase. His footsteps are heavy and tired. He’s muttering curse words under his breath, a little slurred.

He sounds young, like he should be.

“Pete?” is asked in the dead air.

The fucker knows him inside out, if he’s sleeping or not. Sometimes Pete thinks they’re best friends.

“Pete,” Patrick whispers now, as if he’ll genuinely shatter Pete’s eardrums if he goes a decibel higher.

“Do we have to go?” Pete asks, sleep-stupid.

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s four in the morning.”

Pete nods, cropped hair rustling against the pillow. He turns away from Patrick and closes his eyes again.

“This isn’t going to fix you.”

A beat.

“I’m not going to fix you like this. Fuck, I doubt this is actually _helping_ you.”

Pete ignores him.

He knows what this is. This is Patrick’s petty, pathetic guilt catching up to him in the form of _concern_ or some shit. Ever the martyr, ever the saint. Perfect, perfect Patrick with his talent and his bashful charm. He wants to clamp his hands over his ears, drown him out. Swim away. Chew on an Ambien.

The sheets against his fist are white. White like virgin snow, Christmases at his grandparents’. Pre-fucked up him. Good him. Lovable him. Baseball cards and extra marshmallows.

It’s not somewhere he can ground himself. It feels too far away, another universe.

White, like the spots behind his eyelids and speckled in the sky where he wants to fly, go away. White, white, like hospital rooms and angel wings. His fingers itch in the pretense of wanting write, all the fucked up similes and metaphors brewing under his skin. The ones he can give to Patrick, make them perfect like him. The ones he can put into music. Overdramatic scribbles into something appealing.

Patrick makes him beautiful. Shows him what he’s worth.

Turns him inside out, hideous and gory and bruised outside and absolutely _clean_ on the inside.

Patrick has no idea what he’s talking about.

He falls asleep, doesn’t care if he wakes up next to Patrick, not at all.

He dreams of white — rabbits in snow, too cold for any of them to be there, refusing to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you, and comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
